


The Many Trinkets of Sir Luckless

by graves_expectations



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Birthday Fluff, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Established Relationship, Hand Feeding, M/M, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Treasure Hunt, in the form of lots of love and gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations
Summary: He had been thinking that a day in the winter would suit him, somber and subdued, but Percival was right—he had three-hundred-and-sixty-five dates to select from. Perhaps heshouldgo for something in the summer. He certainly liked the idea of enjoying his chosen birthday in the sunshine with Percival every year.





	The Many Trinkets of Sir Luckless

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for the [Anon Challenge](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Anonymous_Fic_Game) which has been lovely to participate in. Thank you so much for inviting me to share in the fun! I've been in excellent, talented company throughout.
> 
> I was kindly permitted to go a _bit_ over the wordcount - thank you for that too!

They chose Credence’s birthday on a dismal Sunday afternoon in March with the wind and rain both waging an endless war on the window of their bedroom.

It may have been cold outside, but Credence was perfectly warm where he sat on crumpled sheets, flushed and sated, with Percival draped around him like a blanket, smile pressed to Credence’s bare shoulder.

“Pick a summer day,” he said, the movements of his lips making Credence squirm in his arms. Ticklish. “Something in July, maybe.”

“Why July?”

Percival kissed his shoulder again before hooking his chin over the top of it. Credence listened to him let out a contented sigh through his nose, the stream of air humid against his collarbone.

“That way you can almost guarantee good weather. Just because I’m stuck with a cold day in December, doesn’t mean you have to be. You can choose any day you want, Credence, why not go for one we might actually be able to spend in the sun?”

Credence frowned at that. Picking a date to celebrate his birthday seemed like a big enough indulgence on its own, let alone choosing one based on the likelihood of it being a nice day each year.

He knew it was the lingering influence of Mary Lou Barebone that made him see it that way. With his name and birthdate stripped from him when he was adopted, she only saw fit to give him one of those things in his new life. A name was necessary. A day to rejoice in the fact of one’s own birth was not.

The desire to spite his adoptive mother overcame him then. He had been thinking that a day in the winter would suit him, somber and subdued, but Percival was right—he had three-hundred-and-sixty-five dates to select from. Perhaps he _should_ go for something in the summer. He certainly liked the idea of enjoying his chosen birthday in the sunshine with Percival every year.

He liked that idea a lot.

“How does July first sound to you?” he asked.

Percival turned his face enough to touch his lips to Credence’s pulse. In reply, Credence closed his eyes and leaned into him, reaching back blindly to caress his cheek, cherishing the noise and sensation of stubble rasping against his palm.

“Sounds like my new favourite day of the year,” Percival said.

 

—

 

Two weeks into June, Credence realised that Percival was up to something.

All of a sudden, he became uncharacteristically shifty. He sent his owl out more often than normal and he held a few late-night Floo powder communications with the Goldstein household, which was unusual for him in itself. Every time Credence came into the sitting room to see the (still terrifying) disembodied heads of either Tina or Queenie in the fireplace, Percival would hurriedly cut off the conversation with whichever Goldstein sister he was speaking to.

And then there were all these ‘errands’ he had to run in the evenings and on weekends that he insisted Credence would find ‘boring’. It was mystifying.

Then he caught Percival lugging something through the front door one Saturday after he came back early from a visit to the Goldsteins, who had been frustratingly tight-lipped at every mention of Percival’s recent strange behaviour.

When he wandered into the hallway and offered to help him with the oddly-shaped parcel that was nearly as tall as him wrapped in brown paper, Percival had sworn, jumped about a foot in the air, and made Credence go wait in the kitchen.

“It’s a surprise,” Percival called from the hallway. “You’re not even meant to _be_ here!”

“A surprise for what?” Credence shouted back.

“Never you mind!”

That was when he caught sight of the calendar on the wall opposite him and the glowing ring Percival had drawn with his wand around the number ‘1’ that indicated the first July day. Credence’s breath caught in his throat as everything slotted into place, even if he could scarcely believe it.

 _Surely not_ , he thought. Surely this couldn’t all be for him? Then again, he had only to remember Percival’s extravagance on previous special days and the idea became more plausible.

When Percival came into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck and looking somewhat abashed, Credence grinned to himself. He tapped his knuckles against his mouth, unaccountably pleased with his deductions.

“Why are you so happy?” Percival asked. Grumbled, really. He obviously knew Credence was onto him and he was annoyed over it.

It was adorable.

Credence crossed the room to take that sour face in his hands. “I just love you,” he said and kissed him, sweet enough for the both of them.

 

—

 

Credence wakes early on the first day of July. Sunlight bathes his face and he closes his eyes again at once. While the warmth is pleasant, the brightness is too much after just waking up and he rolls onto the other side of the bed to escape the light with a groan. He doesn’t encounter another body there like he was expecting to, so he surmises that Percival must already be up and about.

When he shakes off the last vestiges of sleep, a thought filters through that warms him even more than the sun: it’s his _birthday_.

Percival’s absence is probably related, he thinks, stretching on his side of the bed with a smile. Considering how he served Credence breakfast in bed on Valentine’s Day and Christmas Day before that (and countless other ordinary days just because he wanted to), Credence suspects he’ll be busy in the kitchen already.

His smile widens when Percival comes into the bedroom after a few minutes. He doesn’t come bearing breakfast, but he’s edible all by himself in Credence’s eyes. He’s already dressed in a cream linen suit—a concession to the anticipated heat of the day—and his hair is perfectly styled as always. Something is different though.

“Is that a new tie?” Credence asks. He sits up in the bed, gratified at the almost physical sensation of Percival’s eyes dragging all the way down his naked chest to linger where the sheets pool around his waist. It still makes him feel powerful, knowing that he holds such sway over this man.

Percival looks down at himself then and touches his palm to the gold silk tie knotted at his throat with a slight quirk of his lips. “Well spotted,” he says. “Eagle-eyed as ever. Happy birthday, my love.”

Credence ducks his head at the endearment. He always does, reminded of how many times he’s had it whispered into his ear in heated moments. “Thank you.”

Percival crosses the room and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I have to go to work today,” he says with a sigh.

Credence’s good mood—previously rising like bubbles in his chest—is obliterated. The bubbles pop and his stomach lurches sickly. “You— you do?”

He thought… well, Percival hadn’t _said_ anything, but Credence had been so sure that he was planning something for the day that he never even imagined that Percival might go into work. A lump forms in his throat as he realises that he might have just been deluding himself all along.

“We’ll do something later,” Percival says, reaching out to run his hand through Credence’s hair as if in apology. He does _look_ apologetic too, eyes wide and sad, mouth down-turned. “I promise.”

Credence nods and summons a smile that he hopes comes across as genuine. “That sounds great.”

“Here,” Percival says. “I have something for you to open after I’m gone.”

When he leaves the room to fetch whatever it is, Credence fiddles with the bedcovers, biting his lip and blinking rapidly. He shouldn’t be upset. He should be thankful for what he’s about to receive, he tells himself, and not ask for more like the ungrateful wretch his Ma used to refer to him as.

His cheeks are aching with how hard he’s working to keep his smile fixed in place when Percival returns, clutching a slim rectangular parcel in his hand. It’s tied up with string, wrapped in the same brown paper as the other package Credence had seen him with a week ago.

Percival sits on the edge of the bed again and leans in to press his mouth against Credence’s cheek and the parcel into his hands. “I hope you like it,” he says as he pulls back.

Credence feels his cheeks dimple properly then, smile becoming authentic at last on hearing the uncertainty in Percival’s tone. “I always love your gifts,” he says, “you know that. Thank you.”

The parcel is firm to the touch and Credence weighs it in his palms, resisting the urge to shake it, as if that would give him another clue as to its content. Judging by the size and shape, his first guess would be a book.

After watching him curiously prod the gift for a minute or two, Percival gets off the bed and stands tall. “I have to go,” he says, regret laced through the words. “Open that right after I leave, okay?”

Credence nods. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you soon.” He gives Credence a smile, another kiss on the cheek, and then Disapparates.

As soon as he’s alone, Credence lets out the full force of his disappointment, blowing a long, gloomy sigh into the empty bedroom. Now what?

With little else to occupy him and wanting a distraction from the awful twisting feeling in his stomach, he looks down at Percival’s gift again. He said to open it, so Credence does. He unties the string and spreads open the wrapping paper to reveal a battered, dog-eared old book bearing the title _The Fountain of Fair Fortune,_ with an illustration of what must be the titular fountain below.

Credence tilts his head as he considers it. It’s a strange gift for Percival to give him. Not a new book, nor one that Credence has ever expressed any interest in. Frowning, he opens the front cover and is immediately startled when something flies out.

It’s a butterfly—twice as large as any Credence has ever seen before. Its wings are pure white with a glossy black outline. Utterly baffled as to how the creature got into the book and how it didn’t get crushed inside the pages, Credence’s mouth hangs slack as he watches the butterfly meander about in the air before it flits back over towards him.

He holds out his hand wonderingly when the butterfly gets near enough to touch. It lands on his palm without hesitating and Credence lets out a laugh, delighted. As soon as it makes contact with his skin though, the butterfly dissolves into a pile of silver glitter in front of his very eyes. The glitter then coalesces, gathering together before it glows and transforms into a small piece of paper that still has a faint silvery sparkle to it.

The handwriting on the note is as familiar to Credence as his own.

Percival always writes legibly, but Credence has watched him draft many a letter with a crease carved out between his eyebrows, hand moving fast across the paper as if he were impatient to just have the words out of his head and on the page already. The result is always a cramped, half-hearted attempt at cursive.

The letters on this note are somewhat neater than usual, properly joined-up for once, and Credence wonders if Percival took his time with this message, wonders if his brow was smooth as he wrote the words that Credence absorbs now with avid eyes.

> _Love of mine, I hope you will forgive the sentimentality of this first gift. This was my mother’s copy of her favourite story growing up, a story she would later read to me that I treasured just as much._
> 
> _I used to think of myself as Sir Luckless, but now I have found my quest’s end, thanks to you._
> 
> _I am sending you on a quest of your own today, Credence, one whose completion I can scarcely wait for._
> 
> _This is your first instruction: go to the place where I last made love to you._

Credence’s face burns at the wording of that final sentence. He gets over that quickly though, heart leaping with excitement. So Percival _had_ planned something for the day, even if he couldn’t be around for it.

He sets the book on the bedside table and picks up his wand to summon his clothes. As much as he wants to stay and read the story (partly because it had such personal meaning to Percival, partly so that he might understand the reference in Percival’s note), he has instructions to follow.

His destination is not far away. Percival had last made love to him on the sofa in the sitting room yesterday evening, both of them too desperate for each other to walk the short journey to the bedroom. It’s an embarrassingly common occurrence, Credence thinks, ears hot as he dresses in a hurry.

When he walks into the sitting room, he finds the long parcel he caught Percival trying to sneak into the apartment and huffs a relieved laugh, glad he hadn’t been wrong about it being a birthday gift after all. Percival just isn’t as cunning as he thinks he is.

He settles himself on the sofa with the package on his lap. On opening it, he instantly has to cover his mouth with both hands.

The broomstick Percival has given him is beautiful, if such a thing can be described that way. The twigs at one end of it are neatly gathered together by two broad silver bands and the handle is made from a dark brown wood that shines in the light, lacquer polished to perfection. The words _Cleansweep One_ are overlaid in gold near the handle’s end.

Ever since Percival had first regaled him with stories of playing for his house Quodpot team at Ilvermorny and all the times he would creep out after curfew to practice his flying, Credence had wanted to know what it was like to soar high off the ground, free as a bird.

Credence holds the broom out in front of himself reverently, testing its balance in his hands and just running his eyes along the length of it, marvelling at how lucky he is. It takes him a good few minutes of silent contemplation of the gift and how he can go about thanking Percival before he realises that something else was enclosed within the parcel.

A white rose sits on the discarded paper, an odd sheen to the flower that makes him want to touch it. He puts the broom down on the sofa and picks up the rose, noting that the thorns have been carefully removed. Percival really does think of everything.

A single petal drops off the head of the rose and falls onto the sofa where it unfurls to reveal a black smudge in the centre. It then expands into another note, the smudge spreading out until words are recognisable.

> _I promised I would teach you to fly. I keep imagining what your face will look like the first time you take off. A dove like you belongs in the air._
> 
> _Are you hungry yet, dear one? I would have brought you a banquet this morning, if not for my plan. My next instruction is simple: go to the place where you could obtain your favourite breakfast._

Credence strokes his hand over the note with a smile and finds it as velvety to the touch as the petals of the rose in his other hand.

 

—

 

The ‘closed’ sign on the door to Kowalski Quality Baked Goods (highly irregular at this hour when Jacob should be busy serving customers on their way to work) is no barrier to Credence. That’s one perk of being close friends with the proprietor.

The instant he steps through the door and sets the bell above it jingling, he’s inundated with sweet smells—cinnamon and icing sugar and a variety of different fruits. It brings instant comfort, as does the sight of Jacob grinning at him from behind the counter. This building brims with as much magic as the esteemed Woolworth Building that houses MACUSA, if you ask Credence.

“Are you closed for the whole day, Jacob?”

“Just until the most important customer of the day has been served,” Jacob answers cheerfully. “Happy birthday, Credence.”

Credence stops short at that, a few feet away from the counter. “How did you know?”

Jacob gives a shrug, still smiling. His eyes twinkle with good humour and more than a hint of mischief. “Let’s just say a little bird told me. Or should I say a big, kinda grumpy bird?”

Of course. _Percival._

Credence hadn’t expected him to involve Jacob in all of this, although he should have done really. Jacob is as much a part of their inner circle as Tina and Queenie are, and the only other person besides Newt who knows about their relationship. Percival and him are the only other people privy to knowledge of _his_ relationship with Queenie and the fact that he overcame the effect of the Swooping Evil venom in the rain over eighteen months ago.

They all keep each other’s secrets. They protect each other. Credence wonders sometimes if that makes them a family.

“He’s not _grumpy_ ,” Credence says with a laugh.

“Maybe not with _you_ he isn’t. But he’s definitely way more romantic than I ever would’ve guessed, I’ll give him that. I’ve got to step up for Queenie’s birthday in August now or he’ll put me to shame. Anyway, enough about that. You’re here for the basket, right?”

Credence frowns. “What basket?”

“Oh boy,” Jacob says. He gives a low whistle, impressed by something. “And it’s all a surprise too? I need to get some pointers off this guy...”

He trails off and Credence watches, confused, as he bustles into the back room for a moment.

“Here we go,” comes Jacob’s voice through the door before the man follows, carrying a wicker basket lined with a red and white checked cloth. “As requested by your man.”

Credence blushes at hearing Percival referred to that way and looks inside the basket to distract himself, finding several of his favourite Demiguise-shaped iced pastries nestled within. Percival knows him well, he thinks, heart fluttering.

“Oh,” Jacob says, prompting him to look up again, “and I’m supposed to give you this, too? Although I got no clue _why_.”

He’s holding out an iridescent scarlet feather. Credence moves to take it from him, mouth parted in surprise because he recognises it from his studies as a phoenix feather. Alarmingly, it bursts into flames the instant he gets his fingers on it and Jacob pulls his own hand back with a yelp.

“Jesus!”

It doesn’t burn though. The fire just tickles where it licks against Credence’s palm for a few seconds and he waits patiently, unconcerned. He knows what’s coming by now. Sure enough, the ashes left by the feather arrange themselves into a small, succinct note, the paper charred and curling at the edges.

> _Sweets for the sweet._
> 
> _Go to the place I would rather not be today._

Credence tucks the note into his pocket along with the other two he’d brought with him. His throat tightens at the thought that he might get to _see_ Percival at his next destination.

“He’s something of a show-off,” Jacob says, “isn’t he?”

The poor man sounds faint, clearly a bit shocked still by what he’d just witnessed.

Credence laughs. “You have no idea.”

 

—

 

Queenie is waiting for him outside the Woolworth Building when he gets there with his basket of Demiguise pastries.

She has her hands furtively hidden behind her back and the bright red slash of her mouth is curved up, numerous straight white teeth on display. When she spots him, she rocks up and down on her heels.

“Happy birthday,” she greets, her voice typically high and breathy with exuberance. “And in answer to your question, honey, I think Percy would agree on that being the best possible ‘thank you’ for all of this. Maybe just wait until you’re behind closed doors to give him the message, hmm?”

Credence actually _feels_ the blood rushing into his head at that. His face must be as scarlet in colour as the phoenix feather he’d just held, the same shade as Queenie’s lipstick.

She grins at him, obviously pleased with herself.

Credence coughs and tries to regain a bit of composure. “You know he hates when you call him that.”

“Me and the Director got real close in these last few weeks while we’ve worked on something together,” Queenie says, golden curls bouncing as she tosses her head and gives him another dazzling flash of a smile. “I’m sure he doesn’t mind. Besides, he needs to be less of a stick in the mud.”

“Worked on what?” Credence asks.

“Oh, you’ll have to find that out next time, sugar. I’m just meant to give you this.”

Queenie stops hiding her hands behind herself and extends a glass bottle stoppered with a cork towards him. The label reads _Effie’s Effervescent Champagne_ in swirling, elaborate lettering.

“Oh I love this!” Credence says, taking it from her excitedly. “We had it last Christmas and the fizzing goes all the way to your fingers and toes and…”

Credence stops talking. The back of his neck is warm under his shirt collar and he can’t blame the July sun beating down on him from the cloudless sky in the slightest. He’s blushing again, this time at the memory of getting more than a little tipsy on this particular champagne on Christmas Eve and being unable to keep his hands (and _mouth_ ) off Percival.

Queenie will have seen his thoughts already though; there’s not a great deal he can do about it now.

“I don’t mind,” Queenie says with a giggle, because she’s an amazing human being. That, or she really just likes the glimpses she gets of other people’s sex lives. The spread of her grin is slow when she catches that thought.

“Is… is there a message for me?” Credence asks weakly.

“Oh! Yes, nearly forgot.”

Queenie beckons for him to follow her into the Woolworth Building. Once they’re inside MACUSA headquarters and obscured from any prying No-Maj eyes, she opens her purse.

After everything he’s seen today, he isn’t at all surprised when a white bird zooms out and comes to rest in his waiting hand. On examination he sees that it’s not a real bird, just a piece of paper folded cleverly (magically?) into the shape of a dove. As expected, it opens up in his palm.

> _I think of that night often, how insatiable you were. The champagne is perhaps more a gift for me, if I am to be completely honest._
> 
> _Go to Tina now, please._
> 
> _I say it plain this time because my riddles up to this point were laughable and I am anxious for this quest to finally be over._

“Come on,” Queenie says in his ear, “you've got somewhere to be, birthday boy.”

 

—

 

Tina, like Queenie and Jacob before her, is waiting for him when he arrives into the Major Investigations Department.

“Many happy returns,” she says, getting up from her desk close to the door. She smiles at him, one eyebrow arched light-heartedly. “Are you having a good birthday?”

Credence nods and holds up his basket and bottle, thinks of the book and broom at home. “I’ve been extremely spoiled so far.”

“Lucky you,” Tina says as she turns to take a brown leather-bound book off her desk. “And he’s not done quite yet—this here is the last one.”

Facing him again, Tina holds out Percival’s final gift to him. The book has a delicate look about it and Credence accepts it from her with care. He sweeps his fingers over the cover, eyes tracing the knot of loosely-tied string holding it together.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Look and see.”

With a pleasant shiver of anticipation, Credence opens the book to find what looks like a photograph album with two images adhered to each page. A few peculiar features distinguish it from a No-Maj photo album: the vibrant _colour_ in the pictures, the fact that the people captured within them are moving, and Credence’s certainty that no one present at the time these pictures were taken has ever touched a camera.

They’re all of him. Him and various combinations of Tina, Queenie, Newt, and Jacob. As he turns the pages, he finds some pictures even contain him and Newt’s creatures. He’s holding hands with the Demiguise in one of them, mouth curved up and moving soundlessly as he speaks to someone in front of him. In another, he’s wagging a finger at the contrite-looking Niffler. He recalls the little thief had taken all of Percival’s pocket change _again_ that day and Credence had threatened to never come visit again if it insisted on stealing to get his attention.

He turns back to the first photograph in the album after he’s flipped through the rest. It’s from Tina's birthday last year, he realises. Credence smiles down at his own likeness captured in the image, sat at the Goldsteins’ dinner table and surrounded by the people he loved best in the world.

“I remember this,” he whispers, touching a finger to the picture unthinkingly.

As soon as he does, he’s no longer in Major Investigations. Suddenly, he’s in the Goldsteins’ apartment instead and he’s watching _himself_ across that same table from the photograph, as if he’d somehow climbed right inside the image, as if he was the camera lens viewing it.

He can’t move at all, which is as strange a sensation as seeing his own body from the outside. To his right, Tina is talking, hands gesturing and lips making the motions of speech, but the room is totally silent. There are no sounds of cutlery against plates, no crackling of the fire in the grate. It should all be disconcerting and yet, for some reason, Credence feels perfectly at ease, calm and content.

He realises then that his vantage point is the one Percival would have had at that dinner, sat at the end of the table facing Credence as he was.

He’s in Percival’s memory.

That revelation is enough to steal the breath from his lungs, but another is hot on its heels: the other him, the other _Credence_ is the brightest figure in the room. Their friends are all recognisable as themselves, but there’s something washed-out about Tina and Queenie, something blurry about Newt and Jacob. They’re faded, in contrast with how vividly he’s been rendered. The focal point of the memory is obviously _him_ and he all but shines in Percival’s crystal-clear recollection.

Credence looks at himself, really looks, and he’s struck not by his usual hang-ups of how sickly pale he was, how skinny, how awkward, but by how… how _beautiful_ he was that day. It must be Percival’s feeling that he’s conscious of in the memory, because that word could never have been conceived in Credence’s mind to be applied to himself.

But it’s accurate, or so Percival must believe, because this remembered Credence really is exquisite, and enviable for it as he sits there with friends, eating and drinking and laughing.

The memory becomes unstable after a while, the room and people around him begin to shimmer and then it all dissolves away until Credence is present in his own body and his own time again.

Tina is watching him, half pleased, half concerned.

“Are you all right?” she asks when he reaches behind himself, feeling for the edge of her desk in a grab for stability.

“What… what was that?”

“It’s a memory album,” Tina says, “Queenie helped him with it, using her—” here, Tina waves a hand by her head to indicate her sister’s Legilimency— “to make the memories clear, and he worked with someone who makes Pensieves to create the pictures that would go in the book. It’s a bit more restrictive in the view of the memories than you get with a Pensieve, no sound, no moving about… but I think he wanted it that way. I think he just wanted you to see yourself through his eyes.”

Credence’s eyes fill with tears, hearing that. “I did,” he says, “I did see and Tina, I— I’m—”

The words won’t come. He still can’t describe himself in the terms that Percival would use for him, not quite, but there are words he can say that are definitely true: “He loves me so much, Tina.”

“He does,” she agrees, voice soft.

Credence scrubs at his eyes with the hand not clutching the album. He sniffs and musters a smile, hoping he’s at least half-way presentable. “Is he in his office?”

If he is, Credence is going to march in there and he is going to kiss Percival Graves like he has never been kissed before. Work day be damned.

“In his office?” Tina repeats, feigned confusion in her tone and the exaggerated frown she’s affected. “No, he came in to leave a note and then left. It’s a special someone’s birthday, apparently.”

Credence’s heart—already thudding faster at the thought of seeing Percival— _races_ now as Percival’s last surprise is unveiled: he really had taken the day off.

“Where’s the note?” Credence asks urgently.

“Well,” Tina says, “he _started_ writing a note, but then he made this weird growling sound, screwed it up, and said ‘Tina, just tell him where I am, will you?’.”

Her impression is hilariously bad and, under any other circumstances, Credence would stay and beg her to say other things in that gruff, absurd voice that was at once nothing like Percival and still bizarrely reminiscent of him somehow.

Not today though.

“And where is that? Where is he?”

Tina stoops to put the bottle of champagne Queenie gave him into the basket beside Jacob’s pastries, careful to prevent it from crushing them, and holds it out to him. She’s getting him ready to go. Credence takes it from her and tucks the memory book under his arm.

“He’s just outside.”

 

—

 

Credence starts off walking when he gets out of the Woolworth Building, but he soon breaks into a run. He wants nothing more than to be where Percival is now.

Out of breath and undoubtedly red in the face, he finds Percival where Tina said he would: sat on one of the benches and looking at the fountain in City Hall Park.

Credence almost drops everything on seeing him—would have, if what he was carrying weren’t treasured gifts.

Percival has one leg crossed over the other as he almost reclines on the bench, one arm resting along the back of it, other hand pressed to his mouth as if deep in thought. He looks casual, but Credence knows him well enough to be able to tell he’s anything but while he waits.

Credence doesn’t attempt to catch his attention, just slows his pace and walks towards him, waiting for him to glance up and—

There it is. The smile that Credence fell for. He’s knee-weakeningly handsome at any time, but wearing that smile… he’s just devastating.

Credence can’t help but increase his stride again, drawn to him unerringly. He couldn’t veer off course even if he wanted to. Percival is his pole star, his true north.

“I said we’d spend the day in the sunshine,” Percival calls out when Credence is still an intolerable number of feet away from him “You can’t honestly think I would go to work after saying that.”

The park is almost free of other patrons. Across the fountain from Percival, one elderly man sits and throws bits of whatever he’s eating to the pigeons at his feet, and that’s it. Credence has never seen the place so quiet.

“Is this your doing?” he asks, gesturing at the nearly empty park around them when he sits down on the bench beside Percival.

He carefully rests his gifts on his left side, leaning in close to Percival on his right so their thighs and shoulders press together. He wants to be near enough to breathe him in—the pomade in his hair, the clean soap-sweat mix on his skin, the aftershave on his neck and jaw.

Their proximity is overly intimate for this public setting, but the old man can’t be seen through the spray of the fountain, and Credence doubts he’ll even glance in their direction anyway.

“People headed to the park might have suddenly decided they had somewhere more important to be,” Percival says, tilting his head to one side as if in acknowledgement of the unscrupulousness of his actions. He then nods in the direction of the old man. “He was already here, unfortunately.”

Credence tuts. “How inconsiderate.”

Percival turns his head, smiling that same toe-curling smile at him. His teeth begin to show as he gets closer to laughing. “My thoughts exactly.”

Growing serious, Credence looks down between them and takes Percival’s hand. He keeps his head down bashfully as he speaks. “I can’t thank you enough for all of my wonderful presents. You’ve given me far too much again.”

Percival sighs gently, tangles their fingers together, and uses his other hand to tip Credence’s face up again. “Mere trinkets,” he says, holding Credence’s gaze. “Trifles, compared to what you give me.” Percival’s earnest expression melts into a playful one. “Now, let’s see about your breakfast at last, shall we?”

He casts a Concealment Charm and, before Credence can ask why, he’s reaching around behind Credence for the basket Jacob gave him and pulling out one of the pastries. He tears off a bite-sized piece and holds it up to Credence’s lips with a smile. It’s both invitation and dare.

Credence opens his mouth, meets Percival’s eyes, and accepts the sticky treat from his fingers like he’s seen Catholics taking holy communion. He watches Percival’s pupils dilate, formerly black dots in the light of the sun. A wave of molten heat floods through him at the sight. His head spins pirouettes and his hands and feet fizz, as if he had just downed the entire bottle of champagne he brought with him.

Percival hand-feeds him the rest of the pastry in silence while wearing an awestruck expression, his own mouth just slightly open. When Credence is finished, he flickers his tongue over Percival’s fingertips, delicately chasing crumbs and the last traces of icing sugar that linger on them.

“Credence,” Percival says, something almost _hurt_ about the cadence of it.

Feeling too hot and reckless with it, Credence licks the pad of Percival’s thumb before he sucks the digit between his lips entirely. The gasp that the move elicits is beyond enthralling.

When the tension becomes too much, he pulls off Percival’s thumb, breathing fast and shifting his hips restlessly. It seems like such a small thing to get worked up over, but here he is, half hard after sucking his lover’s thumb on a park bench early in the morning of his chosen birthday.

He couldn’t be much happier.

“Cast a stronger Concealment Charm,” he suggests. “Then I can properly thank you for your gifts.”

“Here?” Percival asks with a grin, “you want to _thank_ me here? Now? Credence, I never would’ve thought you had it in you.”

“I don’t. _Yet_.”

A beat of silence passes. Then Percival laughs and laughs like Credence has just made him the happiest man on earth.

Maybe he is, Credence thinks, growing dizzy as he laughs uncontrollably too at his own boldness in making the obvious joke. Maybe it’s a title they can share.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Percival says when he’s able to speak again, voice higher pitched than normal as he lifts a hand to wipe genuine tears of mirth away from his eyes. “Did I fall asleep just now and dream that?”

Credence, red in the face from his laughter and mortification both, just shakes his head.

“Incredible,” Percival says. His hand comes up to hold Credence’s cheek, his other one moving in the air as he casts the spell. “There. As good as completely invisible. What did you have in mind?”

In answer to his question, Credence leans in and softly presses their mouths together. He drapes his arms around Percival’s neck, shutting his eyes and slanting his head more to the right when Percival’s hands on his face angle him that way. Percival’s closed lips brush against his, keeping the kiss light and shallow, even as Credence opens his mouth to try to deepen it.

“Tease,” he accuses.

“Impatient,” Percival murmurs in return before taking Credence’s bottom lip between his and sucking.

He pulls back after that and Credence whines a complaint when he does. Percival smiles at the noise, running one fingertip down Credence’s cheek. “What do you want to do today?” he asks. “Anything you can imagine, just ask and I’ll make it happen.”

Credence hesitates. That’s a momentous offer, all-encompassing in its scope, and yet all Credence wants is something much simpler. “I know you said we’d spend the day outside,” he begins, almost guilty over what he’s about to ask for.

“Yes?”

“But… but all I want is for you to take me home. Now. Right now.”

Percival sucks in a sharp breath. Without saying anything else, he stands up, takes hold of his gifts to Credence in one hand and tugs on Credence’s wrist with the other. He pulls Credence off the bench and—after a quick check to make sure no one is around to witness—Disapparates them both.

 

—

 

The temperature outside has notched up rapidly since they got home and their bedroom is sweltering. Sweat beads on their brows, gathers in the divots of their throats and collarbones, slides down the backs of their necks.

Credence lays his hand lightly on the left side of Percival’s bare chest, feeling his heartbeat. Percival breathes in, breathes out. Credence’s hand moves with him

Everything feels indulgent. Hazy and hedonistic. There’s a fluidity in the rhythm of their rocking together like dancing a reverse waltz—slow, _slow_ , quick. It’s there in every press of Percival’s swollen mouth to his, every undulation of their hips.

“Credence. Tell me what you want.”

“Anything,” is Credence’s immediate reply. “Everything.”

“My mouth to start?” Percival asks breathlessly.

Credence nods, squeezing his eyes shut, overcome. He kisses Percival fiercely, tongue pushing hard against his as he grinds down onto him again with a shudder. He can’t quite suppress a whimper of need and he feels a finger touch his bottom lip gently. “Shh,” Percival soothes. “You know I’ll take care of you, love. Don’t fret now.”

He shifts down the bed and settles himself so his head is poised between Credence’s trembling thighs.

Credence puts one knuckle to his mouth and bites down on it while he watches Percival bend his head to mouth over his erection before taking it between his lips.

The sensation is as incredible as it was the first time Percival did this for him. Credence drowns in the simultaneous relief and torture of it while he alternates between stroking his hands over Percival’s hair and caressing the nape of his neck. When Percival sinks his mouth down to take more of him, he ends up scraping his fingernails over Percival’s shoulders, panting for air.

He desperately wants to reciprocate. He _aches_ to have Percival in his mouth, too much to let him go any further.

“Wait…” he says. “Please, can I— at the same time?”

The request is barely coherent, but Percival understands him. “Anything you want,” he says, turning himself around on the bed so their heads are at opposite ends. He lays down on his side, perfectly positioned to pick up where he left off and Credence rolls onto his side too. He opens his lips to take Percival in before he can get too distracted by the feeling of his own erection being swallowed by the wet, welcoming heat of Percival’s mouth.

The responding moan he gets from Percival is immensely satisfying, not least because the vibration of it feels _fantastic_. Breathing shallowly through his nose, Credence shuts his eyes while he sucks, the fall of his eyelids as automatic as it is when Percival kisses him. Percival’s broad palms take a firm hold of his hips, tightening further when Credence circles his tongue over the head of his cock.

Credence  _loves_ doing this. He loves the taste, the musky heaviness of Percival on his tongue. Just the memory of having him in his mouth is enough to get him hard sometimes, but it’s truly an experience beyond compare when he also has the hot, slick bonus of Percival sucking him at the same time.

There’s something gloriously filthy about being the wrong way up too, unable to see Percival’s face, unable to see much of _anything_ , really, besides the lewd flesh pushing in and out of his mouth.

It’s all about action and reaction, for him. He swallows and Percival falters before stubbornly finding a rhythm again. As if trying to escalate things, Percival then takes him deeper, nose pressed to his pelvis when he accepts Credence into his throat _._ Credence has to let Percival’s cock slip out of his own mouth for a few seconds while he tries to get his breath back, pressing his flushed cheek against Percival’s thigh.

They push each other towards orgasm in a back and forth challenge after that, caught in a feedback loop of pleasure that urges them both to be _better_ for the other. They lose themselves completely in _faster, tighter, deeper._

Credence goes over the edge first, stiffening and then shaking as Percival’s throat convulses around him, swallowing everything. He does the same when Percival comes with a low groan and a brief tightening of his throat around Credence’s now almost painfully sensitive cock. He whines and hears Percival gasp in return. They’re in the same overstimulated boat, it seems, and they release each other with relieved, satiated sighs.

Credence shuts his eyes and nuzzles his nose against Percival’s hip, smiling when he feels Percival press open-mouthed kisses randomly over his inner thigh.

“This,” he says, slurring the words a little, “is the best birthday I have ever had.”

Percival laughs. He sits up with a rustle of the sheets and then flops down on his other side so they can face one another again.

“No,” he says, reaching out to run his thumb over Credence’s cheekbone. “Just the first. The best are all yet to come.”

**Author's Note:**

> The aim of the anon challenge is to have readers guess who wrote the fics. So I invite your best guesses: who am I?
> 
> A list of the participants in the challenge can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Anonymous_Fic_Game/profile) :)


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